Don't Say Yes
by BryonieAnne
Summary: As Sherlock was finishing up Moriarty's minions, John had gotten himself engaged. But what will Sherlock think? One-Shot. Johnlock. Read and Review please please please! :


Sherlock Holmes tapped his fingers on his knees impatiently. He glared daggers at his mobile, willing it to vibrate. He'd expected the text sooner than this. Something must have gone wrong.

He was sitting in the small abandoned flat directly across from 221B Baker Street. He'd been there for weeks, keeping a silent sentinel, always watching a certain army doctor. He watched him come and go, leave to work at the surgery, and sometimes he'd bring a girl home. It was always the same girl, Sherlock noted with chagrin. She had mousy brown hair and her chin stuck out too much. From his post he could tell she had come in to some amount of money, and wasn't used to working or hard labour. She wore dresses most of the time, high heeled shoes and a fancy blazer. Sherlock huffed. His suit jackets were much nicer than her horrid apparel. John really should pick someone with better fashion sense.

He hadn't seen John meet her, it probably happened while he was abroad, luring Moriarty's minions into his web. By the time he took up his station on Baker Street it appeared John and this woman knew each other rather intimately. He would hold her hand when they walked up to the door, and he'd give her a kiss when she left in the morning.

One afternoon Sherlock had peeked through the boards covering up his window (giving him excellent cover) and had seen the woman leaning up against the door of 221B. _His door._ Sherlock's door. He checked the time on his phone. John would just be leaving the Surgery now, it would be another 10 minutes before he reached Baker Street. Sherlock decided he would take this time to deduce all he could about the woman.

He started with the hair. Mousy brown pulled up into a messy bun at the back of her head. Sherlock grimaced. She was trying to look good for John, but trying to make it look like she _wasn't_ trying. Next.

Her shirt was a button up, not so different than the one Sherlock had on at that very moment. Although she was wearing hers a bit differently. The first four buttons were undone, making her cleavage _very_ noticeable. Sherlock looked down at his own shirt. All but the first button done up.

Next he noticed the color of her shirt. It was a deep shade of purple, not unlike the shirt Sherlock had before the fall. Of course he'd left it at the flat. John would notice if that particular shirt was missing. He wondered where she'd managed to find a shirt so close in color to-

_Oh._

**Oh.**

It was his. He glanced at the lowest hem of the shirt, there was a cut in the fabric from when John and Sherlock had a bit of a row, and John threw a fork (who knew forks could cut fabric when thrown hard enough?). He looked at the collar: small black mark where he'd burnt it with cigarette ash. Now the better question: **_Why was she wearing Sherlock's shirt?_**

Sherlock shook his head and continued his deductions quietly in his head until he reached her hand. He was looking at her nails, noting how she'd probably never done hard labour in her life, when the light caught an object on her hand and glinted. He squinted his eyes a bit and made out a band on her finger. Left hand, ring finger. An engagement ring. That was weird. Why would she be wearing an engagement ring when meeting John? If there was some husband she was cheating on, then she would have surely removed the ring.

Unless…

Unless?

Sherlock had backed away from the window then. The heart he didn't know existed had flared up with a vengeance. It was aching, and Sherlock dropped to his knees. He shouldn't feel physical pain upon finding out John was engaged. Should he?

But he did. It defied all his logic and it broke all his carefully laid plans. Hadn't he said from the start he was married to his work? He never meant to fall for John. In fact, he hadn't even realized he had. But now it was all there, dancing around in front of him. It all made _perfect sense_.

He'd met John and been fascinated by him. John was the only person who didn't treat him like a freak; in fact he idolized Sherlock. Sherlock needed him around, on cases, in the flat, wherever. Seeing John in the bomb vest was like a bullet through his heart, and when Moriarty left the pool all he could think of was getting John out of danger. And when Moriarty returned he would have gladly offered his own life to save John's. That day on St Bart's roof, Sherlock was faced with a choice. Die, or let John die. If he hadn't had a plan to fake his death, he'd have died for John anyway. Because he cared for John, more than anyone else on the entire planet. And as soon as he could, he'd returned to Baker Street, to keep an eye on John, while the last of the web was being spun. And now he'd seen John's soon-to-be wife and he felt as though his heart had been ripped out and spread all over the floor like John's favorite jam.

He'd fallen on the floor, crunched into the fetal position, clutching at the empty cavity in his chest where his unused heart used to be. He knew not how long he'd been lying there, alone and shaking. 1 day? 2 days? He probably wouldn't have ever gotten up if he didn't feel the slight buzz of his mobile in his pocket.

We've surrounded him, dear brother. We're about to arrest him. Would you like the honors? – MH

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he replied to his brother.

Why didn't you tell me he was engaged

Sherlock fell asleep right after he hit the send button, if the fitful nightmare riddled nighttime could be called sleep.

And now, a few days later, Sherlock stared at the phone on the table in front of him, willing Mycroft to text. To tell him that Moran was in jail, and that he could return to John. To tell him that he could tell John how big of a mistake he was making, to remind John that they were a team and he would be nothing alone.

If there had been anything interesting in Baker Street that day, it entirely escaped Sherlock's attention; such was his intense focus on the mobile. He already had on his coat and scarf, Mycroft had said Moran would be in jail by noon. Sherlock looked at the clock again, 12:37.

If only Mycroft had been _on time_ Sherlock could already have apologized to John. He could have hugged him, maybe even taken a punch, and then maybe he'd have kissed John. He could have begged John not to marry her, and they could already be back in their flat, the duo reunited. But Mycroft **_had to be late._**

Sherlock picked up his phone, ready to text Mycroft all sorts of vitriol when the phone vibrated.

It's done. –MH

Sherlock was out of the empty flat like a shot from a gun as he rushed across the small street. He gave three steady knocks on the knocker of 221B and waited impatiently. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and hugged him, not even a little surprised that Sherlock Holmes had survived his own death. As she pulled away though, Sherlock noticed her eyes were wet with tears.

"What, Mrs. Hudson?"

"It's John, Sherlock," she sniffed. Sherlock stiffened. "He's down the road at the church. With her."

And again Sherlock was off like a shot. He didn't remember running so fast ever before in his life, not even after criminals. This was much more important than criminal-chasing, and he hadn't even a second to spare.

He reached the large oak doors of the church and could hear the organ music playing inside. He heard the muffled talking of the minister and he wiped away a small tear. He might be too late.

But, Sherlock realized, he didn't care. Even if he was too late, he would enter that church and lay it all before John. And John could accept or deny him. It would be out of his power. The idea of being powerless left Sherlock a little breathless and he pushed open the doors.

He stumbled in the doors to sounds of awe and disapproval, but Sherlock held his head high.

The bride and groom hadn't noticed him yet, and he saw John holding a sparkling gold band, about to put it on the woman's finger. His mind ground to a halt.

"John!" was the only word his incredible mind could muster, as he saw them up on the altar, exchanging their vows.

He watched with wide eyes as John turned to him, and realized who had spoken. His mouth dropped into a little "o" and the band fell out of his hand.

"Sherlock," he spoke quietly but Sherlock could hear it clearly. Then John began to run. He ran away from the altar and down the aisle, towards Sherlock and away from _her_. As John launched himself at Sherlock, they both managed to grin; the most beautiful smiles they'd seen since the fall.

They hugged, and it was the most amazing feeling Sherlock had ever known. He held John as tightly as possible, letting silent tears stream down his face. "Don't," he whispered over and over again. "Please, don't."

And John was answering "I won't," over and over. "Only you, only you."

Sherlock pulled out of the embrace for a short moment, only to drop his head and capture John Watson's lips with his own. Sherlock didn't hear the angry squeak of the bride or the ooh's and aww's. All he heard was John breathing, and all he could feel was John's mouth, moving and grinding with his own. It was clear to Sherlock that John wanted this as much as he did, and that made him kiss harder, more passionately. He tried to push every ounce of happiness he had inside him into John and John returned every little bit.

When they broke apart, John laughed. It was a bright, airy laugh, the same laugh he'd use when they'd just chased down a suspect, or when they'd saved a life. Sherlock joined him, his deep baritone mixing with John's alto, making beautiful music.

"Ahem. John? What the hell is going on?" The woman on the altar was standing stock still, staring at the two men. Sherlock's hand felt for John's and gave a quick squeeze. Then another. And a third. John nodded, showing he'd received the code, and smiled slightly.

Then, without any words, the Army Doctor and Consulting Detective turned and ran out of the church. They ran away, like they'd run away from killers, and like they'd run away from the police. They ran together, never letting go of the other's hand.

* * *

**Hope this is okay! I wrote it in like 15 minutes, it was just an idea that wouldn't stop rolling around inside my head. The woman is Mary Morstan if anyone cares, although I'm sure most of you deduced that! :) Reviews are nice!**


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